


Test Subject

by ThePreciousHeart



Category: The Prisoner (1967)
Genre: Gen, Interrogation, Mind Games, Psychological Torture, Resistance, Torture, Verbal Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 01:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10934355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePreciousHeart/pseuds/ThePreciousHeart
Summary: When it comes to prisoner no. 6, physical torture is forbidden. But that doesn't mean it can't be simulated.





	Test Subject

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning for torture. It's in the tags but I figured I'd better state it again. The torture is only simulated but the pain created is real. 
> 
> I realized in hindsight that this piece owes a bit to two scenes in fiction- Winston's torture in 1984, and Tobias's torture in the Animorphs book The Illusion. I'm stating this in case anyone wants to seek those scenes out and compare (or if you're just interested).

       “A simple question deserves a simple answer. Why did you resign?”

       He’s got the good sense to keep his mouth shut, but even if he hadn’t, he doubts he would be able to answer. Not with the metal restraint biting into his throat. Whoever this device was designed for obviously had a slimmer neck than his. Perhaps No. 2 modeled for it herself? Or did she tighten it to amuse herself with his shallow breathing?

       “Come on, now.” No. 2 drums her fingers against the metal railing above him, the only physical indicator of her impatience. Her face remains as smooth as the untouched surface of a lake. “We haven’t got all day. You’ve managed to elude us for this long. Stop resisting, and this will all run more smoothly.”

       He’s heard it a million times, and still he refuses to speak, because at this point it’s the only way he _can_ resist. The bonds that confine his wrists, ankles, and neck to the platform rule out the possibility of running or fighting back. From day one he’d considered himself a prisoner, but at least he’d been free to walk around his gilded cage. Evidently his captors have grown weary of his mobility.

       “Still got nothing to say?” No. 2 shrugs and reaches for the dial. He doesn’t bother bracing himself, knowing full well how little his self-preparation will help.

        No. 2 turns the dial, and the pain rushes into him. He grinds his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut to keep from making a sound. Fortunately, he’s had worse in his time before the Village. A broken leg, a dislocated shoulder, tear gas and, on rare occasions, bullet wounds… Such were the pitfalls of life as a soldier-turned-spy. The highest No. 2 has turned the dial is level five, which feels a lot like he’s being roasted on a spit. That alone is nothing he can’t handle. What causes the greatest discomfort is the unpredictability. Instead of gradually progressing from one to two to three, No. 2 likes to skip around, leaving him with the feeling of a nasty sunburn at one moment, and boiling him alive the next.

      Some men with a weaker disposition might have confessed already, or at least cried out for the ordeal to end. He, on the other hand, remains silent and still even as he’s being torn apart from the inside out. Not a single muscle twitches. Reacting would give No. 2 pleasure, and that’s the last thing he wants to do.

       Eventually No. 2 flips the dial off, leaving the pain to evaporate. Swallowing past the restraint that’s half-choking him, he carefully watches No. 2 lean against the railing, her eyes twinkling.

        “I must say, despite your uncooperative manner, you’ve done a great favor to provide a test subject for my new toy.”

        A dry, wheezing laugh spills from his mouth, though it comes out sounding more like the prelude to a coughing fit. “In that case, I’m obliged.”

       No. 2 laughs too, a rich, hearty sound that comes straight from her chest. “And yet you refuse to confess! You’re really quite a puzzle, No. 6.” Her hand hovers over the dial and, in his haste to discern which level is to be used, he’s caught off-guard when the pain slams into him. It crackles through his bones, electrifying him with pure energy, tearing through his flesh. In a way, it reminds him of the first and only time he touched Rover.

       “Level six,” No. 2 says approvingly, her voice distantly reaching his ears as if she’s calling from the other side of a tunnel. Automatically he warms at the statement. _Six. That’s m-_

      _NO._ Even in the midst of a lightning-fueled frenzy, he manages to banish the thought. He knows what his name is, and it’s _not_ the one they’ve assigned him.

        After a few moments, No. 2 turns the dial again, causing the pain to subside back to level one. Level one feels like nothing more than a team of pestering insects stinging him, and he welcomes its return. Sweat rolls down his face. Instinctively he tries to raise a hand to wipe it off, but the most he can do is twitch his fingers.

       “Ingenious, really,” No. 2 declares. She’s slouching languidly against the rail, her chin resting on her folded arms. Though she lavishes praise on her own work, her drooping eyelids and relaxed stance hint at the onset of ennui. “By stimulating the sensors of the brain that experience pain, this device provides an elegant means of interrogation, without causing any true physical harm. The convoluted methods of the past have been abolished. No more spying on your dreams or calling in body doubles to wreak havoc on your sense of self.” A slight chuckle escapes her, equal parts fondness and contempt.

       He wonders why No. 2 is filling him in on the machine’s workings in the first place. Is she merely gloating over the Village’s technological achievements, or does she actually think imparting this knowledge will benefit him? _I do hope I’m not tested on this material later._

       “I can’t understand why you continue to defy us,” No. 2 says, returning to the genial farce. A conversation between friends. “You’ve held onto your little secret for a very long time. Surely it must be wearing on you. Wouldn’t you prefer to get it off your chest?”

       He shakes his head as best he can, which isn’t very well at all. But at least he tried. A wry grin plays upon his lips. “My chest can stand the weight.”

       No. 2 sighs heavily and, without warning, pushes the dial up to level three. The sensation of pins and needles scours his body from head to toe, as if his entire blood circulation has been cut off and suddenly returned. Taken by surprise, he bites his tongue to distract himself, and to keep himself quiet.

       “Why do you insist on prolonging such unpleasantness?” No. 2 asks. There’s an air of melodrama in her voice, but underneath the veneer he senses she would really like to know. Her eyes are fixed on him, calculating every blink, every breath, every vague sign of distress. “There’s really nothing to fear. Tell us what we want to know, and this...ordeal will end before you know it.” An accusatory air fills her voice, though it’s couched in sympathetic tones. “If you despise the Village as much as you claim to, why won’t you take up my offer? Why do you remain here?”

       At that, he could nearly laugh. Of all the questions they’ve asked him, this one hardly deserves an answer. _Have I got a CHOICE in the matter?_ He closes his eyes, concentrating on breathing, resisting the urge to strain against his bonds, to scratch his imaginary itches. _I’m here because I’m a prisoner. You’re my captor._

        “Prisoner?” No. 2 exclaims. She swiftly turns the dial back to level two, leaving him panting. Two is bearable. Two he can manage.

       “We are only holding you here for your own good, No. 6.”

       A cold feeling steals over him. _How did she… Did I say that aloud? ...For goodness sakes,_ _CONTROL YOURSELF_. One more slip of the tongue, and No. 2 could gain the upper hand. Or worse, he could be starting to crack. He doesn’t _feel_ like he’s reached that point- _not yet-_ but then again, would he even have the sense to notice if it happened?

       As far as he can tell, losing one’s sanity isn’t like losing the keys to a car or even one’s train of thought. Sanity is not an object to be set down on a desk and unearthed later from beneath accumulated papers. When one releases one’s sanity, it’s gone forever, and no choice words can call it back.

       In short, his sanity is non-refundable, and he can’t afford to loosen his grip.

       “You’re holding me here because I’ve got something that you don’t,” he says rapidly. His mouth is dry, his breath scraping painfully in his throat, and he swallows before speaking again. “Something I’ll never give you. You’re holding me here because you believe my freedom can be bought.”

        No. 2 narrows her eyes, and her lips curl. It’s not an outright sneer, but she looks as if she’s tasted rotten fruit. Her fingers stiffen against the dial.

       “Freedom?” she scoffs, abandoning her warm demeanor. “That’s where you’re sorely wrong. You don’t want freedom.”

       He swallows harder, forcing himself to focus. His body is rigid against the platform. “Since you seem to know my mind better than I do, tell me… what _do_ I want?”

       No. 2’s gray eyes glint, like the steel surface of a suit of armor. _“You wouldn’t know what to do with your freedom if you had it.”_

With that, she turns the switch back up to level five. He chokes back a groan rising in his throat as his world ignites.

       _“No,”_ he spits at No. 2, determined to defy her until his heart stops beating. “I know _exactly_ what I’ll do.”

       No. 2 purses her lips and turns the dial down a notch, apparently deciding that his answer is worth a reward. “And what, _exactly,_ is your master plan?”

         _Think, think. Don’t let her get the best of you._ Fortunately, it’s not hard to come up with an answer, as he’s had a plan formulated in his head ever since his first week in the Village. Each foiled escape attempt only modifies it rather than extinguishing it. He unlocks his clenched teeth and forces himself to speak with only a hint of strain.

       “I’ll return to London as soon as I can.”

       No. 2's laughter peals across the chamber like the chimes of a church bell. “Always to London! And then what?”

       Now the images are springing to mind, each step of the plan that he envisions nearly every night before giving in to sleep. They serve as a satisfactory distraction from the flames that consume him.

       “I’ll enter my apartment as if I never left it.”

       “And _then_ what?”

       “I’ll pick up my car, and drive away- far away.” He hopes No. 2 doesn’t assume that means he’s running from the Village, frightened by their omnipresence. _Far from it._

But all No. 2 says is, “And _then_ what?”

       Here is where the plan has changed most significantly from his initial ideas. Though he’s only briefly met with his colleagues after his entrapment, it’s enough to prove that the Village has sunk their claws into them. Turning to his former organization will do him more harm than good. So he sidesteps the matter for now.

       “Then I’ll leave the car at an airport.” He closes his eyes, envisioning himself on the plane, conjuring up the momentary sense of weightlessness as it takes to the heavens. His heart has always soared when traveling by air. “I’ll be off.”

       No. 2 narrows her eyes, her fingers poised above the dial. He forces himself not to react.

       “Off? Where to?”

       An exhausted, triumphant smile falls across his face. “I’ll go on holiday.” He offers no more details, lest his captors try to track him once he’s finally free. Sunny beaches, palm fronds waving in the breeze. Scalding desert sands, steamy jungles, rolling meadows… The entire world is waiting for him to explore, as a tourist this time, rather than an agent with a duty to fulfill.

       The answer does not please No. 2. Her eyes harden, and she pushes the dial up a level, setting him alight again. “Isn’t that just like you, No. 6? You think only of how to make _yourself_ happy.” Scorn drips from every word. “And pray tell, what will you do when you get back?”

        Now he’s on more comfortable footing. The desire that fuels him burns nearly as brightly as the sensation of flames he’s drowning in. “I shall return to the Village, and dismantle this place from bottom to top.”

       “Ah, yes.” No. 2’s grip tightens on the dial. “You’ve told me that one before. You believe one man can take down so many?”

       He grits his teeth, takes in a slow breath. “I believe I can try.”

      No. 2 bats her eyelashes. “And if you succeed… then what?”

     Level five makes it harder to speak, and his words come out in a papery whisper. But at least they come out at all. “Then my work here is done.”

      For a long moment, No. 2 simply stares at him, her expression inscrutable. Is she sizing him up, or concocting a verbal attack? He realizes suddenly how loud and harsh his breathing is, in the stillness of the chamber, and quickly quiets himself. He’s not in agony. _Not yet._

“And then what?” No. 2 finally says, after what feels like an eternity.

       The question strikes him as meaningless. He’s said all he needs to say. No more, no less.

       “Then my work here is _done.”_

No. 2 purses her lips and cocks her head, her brow furrowing into a perfect picture of sweet confusion.

       “Are you _sure?_ You’ve got the rest of your life to live. Tell me the truth. You’ll dismantle the Village, and _then_ what?”

       He’s about to respond, to launch a stinging retort at her, to fling his words in her face like pebbles launched from a slingshot. But when he opens his mouth, he finds he’s speechless. The pain bites into him, momentarily whisking his breath away. A jolt goes through him, like the shock of missing a step on a flight of stairs.

       _Concentrate. Focus._ Internally he begs for his composure to return intact. _Think. I’ll dismantle the Village…_ and then what…

       “Go on,” No. 2 encourages him. Her harsh-edged voice grips him like a firm handshake, but there’s a mocking smile on her lips. “Tell me what you plan to do with all that freedom. And then what?”

       _Freedom. Freedom._ He clutches at the word as if it’s a life preserver, preventing him from sinking beneath treacherous waves. _I’ll burn the Village to the ground!_ Yes! He’ll tear the place down, and afterwards…

       Afterwards…

       “Maybe you’ll be able to answer this one,” No. 2 says, seemingly oblivious to her prisoner’s mental struggle. “Why was Six afraid of seven?” She squeezes the dial, and then thrusts it forward without warning. “Because _seven, eight, NINE!”_

       _Nine._

 Nine is worse than a swarm of bullets tearing him apart. Nine is more overwhelming than Rover’s white-hot surface. Nine is blinding, excruciating, deadly. _Deadly._

      If this is nine, then ten will destroy him.

      His back is arched off the platform, his fists clenched so tightly he feels the bones might pop. A haze of red dances before his eyes. Over the sound of his own screams, he just barely catches No. 2’s eager command, spoken with the cordiality of a host accepting a guest. “Go on, tell me! _And then what?!”_

He wants to lash out, to wrench No. 2’s hand from the dial, to seize her by the throat and pin her to the wall… Anything to make it stop. _Anything._

But as he’s bound in place, his mind begins to shut down instead. Only a single word remains, flashing over and over- _CONTROL. CONTROL. CONTROL_.

      Then, just as suddenly as it was inflicted on him, the torture stops. He gasps, flinching automatically, because the absence of pain hurts nearly as badly. Then the tension begins to drain from his body, and his head lolls back against the platform. His hands fall limply open, revealing specks of blood where his fingernails dug into his palms. Slowly he catches his breath, sweat pouring down his face. _Control._ _Regain control. Regain…_

Despite his personal orders, he can’t help tensing again when No. 2’s voice rings out.

      “Splendid.” Her face is wreathed in an angelic smile. “That will be all, No. 6. We’re through with you for the day.”

       His first instinct is dizzying relief- but then her words hit him squarely in the chest, and he stops breathing. Does this mean… For heaven’s sake, he didn’t… _DID_ he? _Did I tell her… Did I confess?_

Overhead, No. 2 presses a button on her control panel. The restraints slide off, and he shoots up. Immediately a black wave swims before his eyes as blood rushes to his head.

       “The test provoked an excellent response,” No. 2 says. A clinical disinterest lingers in her voice, matched by her avoidance of No. 6’s gaze. “Perhaps you would like to hear?”

       Knowing that no reply is forthcoming, she stabs another button on the control panel, and a man’s voice echoes across the chamber. The words are so strained, distorted, and full of rage that at first he doesn’t recognize the voice as his own.

       _“I’LL KILL YOU!_ I’ll come back to the Village and I’ll _kill you!_ I’ll look you in the eye _before I pump you full of bullets!_ I’ll call in missiles! _I’ll drop bombs!_ I’ll come back just to destroy _every single one of you! DIE! DIE!!”_

The words are lost in an anguished howl. The sound turns his blood to ice.

       Nothing on the recording is familiar. Not the sound of his voice, nor the words he used, nor the desires expressed. _She’s playing games with me. It’s a fabrication-_

But just as the thought crosses his mind, No. 2’s voice sounds on the recording. “Splendid. That will be all, No. 6.”

        His vision clears, and he blinks up at No. 2. He tries to mold his face into its usual stoic mask, but there must still be an element of searching in his expression, because No. 2’s mouth hardens into a small, tight smile before she speaks.

       “You’re a natural, No. 6,” she declares rapturously. “In a single session, you’ve displayed a steadfast refusal to spill your secrets, incalculable bravery in face of harm, and of course a strong desire to eliminate those who threaten you, no questions asked. Call it self-preservation, or perhaps bloodlust. Either way, there's no denying that any organization would find such qualities invaluable in one of their agents.” She cocks her head, appearing genuinely curious.

        “So why _did_ you resign?”

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: No. 2 was male when I began writing this, but it quickly became too confusing to refer to both characters as "he" (as it doesn't seem fair to call No. 6 that when the story is told from his perspective). I'm glad I made her a woman, because now I have a few ideas about her, and I might explore them in writing later.
> 
> Anyway, I'm a bit unsure about this piece, so any feedback is greatly appreciated.


End file.
